


We'll always have Paris

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: Pedro Pascal - Fandom, The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Kissing, Looking at you Teresa, Love Confessions, Making Out, Marcus is a sweet angel who deserved better, Perfect Boyfriend Marcus TM, romantic dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26126143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: Marcus goes on a business trip and absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Relationships: Marcus Pike/Female Reader, Marcus Pike/Reader, Marcus Pike/You
Comments: 12
Kudos: 27





	We'll always have Paris

“Hey, sweetheart.”

The smile in Marcus’s voice makes you cradle the phone to your cheek, as if it would bring him closer.

Mirroring that smile, you lean in to breathe the scent of peonies from the lush bouquet that dominates your desk. “The flowers are gorgeous. Thank you so much.”

“I hoped you'd like them.”

“I _love_ them.” You glance up from your desk. “Half of the office is asking if you have any single brothers.”

His laugh is warm, delighted, a little bit husky. “Well, I wish I could have given them to you in person, but delivery will have to do for now.”

“I miss you,” you lament.

In theory, Marcus’s week-long work trip to Paris had sounded like a quick jaunt. In practice, however, the days have dragged, leaving you craving his touch, his scent, the warmth of his gaze.

A sigh buffets the phone. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” He laughs again. “The most romantic city in the world and I’m here by myself. Next time I’m bringing you with me.”

Your heartbeat quickens with the instant fantasy of sharing walks along the Seine, museum crawls, and plush hotel beds with Marcus. “I might have to hold you to that.”

“Baby, you can hold me any way you want.”

It’s your turn to laugh at the pickup-line tone he’s adopted. “Smooth, Agent Pike. How’s the work side of things going?”

“Not bad,” he says. “We’ve got some hard intel on the gang we’ve been looking at, so I’m calling it a success.”

“I’m glad. And I’m even more glad Friday’s only two days away, I can’t wait to see you again.”

“Speaking of Friday, I was thinking.” There’s a faint shuffling of papers on the other end of the line. “What do you say we have dinner at my place? I’ll get takeout and we can just relax, watch a movie, whatever you want. I just want to be with you.”

“That sounds perfect,” you say, and mean it. To hell with reservations and nice clothes, you just want to cuddle up to Marcus and soak him in, make up for lost time.

“Great.” There’s a pause, and when he speaks again his voice is lower, closer to your ear. “I was also thinking...if you want, I’d love to have you spend the night. Only if you want to, no pressure,” he hurries to add.

A tendril of warmth unfurls in your chest with his words. 

Your first date with Marcus was a couple of months ago, the day after you’d met at a party at a mutual friend’s house. Truth be told, you’d fallen hard and fast for him, but Marcus had been open from the beginning about the previous relationships that had ended disastrously and left him gun-shy. 

With each new piece of your heart he effortlessly stole, you’d tried -- and failed -- to imagine what woman would be fool enough to walk away from Marcus Pike.

Between his wariness of rushing you and a job that claims so much of his time, you’ve yet to go beyond making out like teenagers. You learned quickly that Marcus is a devastating kisser, and the little taste of what his gorgeous, clever hands can do has had you dreaming of what he’s like in bed. Now, the prospect of finding out fills your stomach with butterflies.

Really aroused butterflies.

“I’d love that too,” you answer him, without hesitation.

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.” You lose the last half of the word to a breathy laugh. “I hope you know my productivity is a lost cause for the next two days, I won’t be able to think about anything else.”

“You and me both,” he practically purrs, in that rough-edged baritone that never fails to make heat blossom in your core.

“I guess I’d better let you go,” you sigh. “But thank you again for the flowers, and I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too, sweetheart. I’m going to go grab some dinner and turn in early, tomorrow’s going to be busy. I’ll be sure to call you when I land on Friday.”

“Fly safe.”

There’s that smile again. “Yes, ma’am.”

\-----------------------

You’re buzzing with anticipation as you knock on the door of Marcus’s apartment, balancing a grocery bag in your arms along with your overnight bag. Marcus had promised via text to make breakfast for you, claiming it was his signature meal, but you couldn’t resist the urge to bring along a few extra treats. If anyone deserves to be spoiled, it’s him.

The door opens and your breath catches in your throat, just like it did the first time you saw him.

From his artfully tousled dark hair to his warm, black-coffee eyes to the beaming smile that dimples his cheek, he’s beautiful, and a week apart has made him even more so. Impossibly broad shoulders make a gray t-shirt sexier than it has any right to be and his long legs are encased in fitted dark jeans, and if he’s jet-lagged he wears it unreasonably well.

He ushers you inside, whisks the bags from your hands to the kitchen counter, and before you can say a word you’re enveloped in his arms. 

You splay your palms on his muscled back and bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his warm skin and a faded kiss of cologne. His heartbeat thrums steadily, soothingly against you as he just holds you, swaying slightly on the spot.

“Missed you,” he finally murmurs, with a press of lips into your hair.

You pull away enough to look into his face, bringing your hands to frame his cheeks. Those dark eyes are soft with contentment and just touching him, breathing the same air, you’re nearly delirious with happiness. “Kiss me, Agent Pike.”

Marcus is nothing if not accommodating.

His lips are soft and warm and insistent on yours, his arms strong around your waist, pressing you close to him. He teases at the seam of your lips with his tongue and lets you swallow his low groan when you open for him. The smell and taste and feel of him flood your senses, and every greedy rush of your pulse says _mine._

You only part when you’re both gasping for breath, laughing a little together at your eagerness.

Marcus nuzzles your nose with his. “Are you hungry? I got sushi from your favorite place.”

“Starving,” you confess.

He lets you go with a last trail of his fingertips over your spine. The brown paper bag you brought in with you catches his eye. “What’ve you got there?”

“Just a little something for tomorrow morning.” With a flourish, you pull out a bottle of champagne and another of orange juice. “And I got you some cookies from that bakery you like, but you can save those for later.”

“You’re too good to me.”

“No such thing,” you insist.

You open the refrigerator, pushing aside a new carton of milk and a tub of salad greens to put the mimosa ingredients to chill. Bustling to his little pantry, you tuck the box of cookies away for him and fold the bag to put it in the drawer where he stashes them. When you look at Marcus again, he’s watching you with a fond expression that makes your heart do a somersault against your ribs.

He’s smiling as he comes to wrap his arms around you again. “I like seeing you here, in my place.”

Pulling him closer, you press a kiss to the bridge of the hawkish nose you love. “I like being here.”

Marcus rewards you with a brush of his lips over your forehead before sliding his hand down your arm to lace your fingers together. “Come on, let’s eat,” he says, with a grin. “No starving on my watch.”

You let him lead you to the table, where he’s got a veritable feast laid out. All your favorite kinds of sushi, steaming miso soup, salt-flecked edamame...when your stomach growls, he laughs and pulls out your chair before sitting beside you and passing you some chopsticks.

Over dinner, you trade stories from your week apart. His are vastly more exciting than yours, but still he listens intently, asks questions, laughs in all the right places, because that’s Marcus.

He lights up when you ask him all about Paris, even breaking his own “no phones at dinner” rule to scroll through his camera roll and show you a few of the best pictures he took. His passion for art and architecture and the little vignettes that get lost in everyday life makes him even more gorgeous, and you must be making heart eyes, because he dimples with a small smile as he puts the phone aside.

“What’s on your mind?”

_I adore you,_ you think, but you swallow the words and settle for a half-truth. “I wish I could have seen it with you.”

“I do too.” He pushes back his plate and takes your hand in his on the table. “I meant what I said. I’d really like to take you with me sometime.”

You’re suddenly shy under his confident, unhurried gaze, and find his smile contagious even as your cheeks warm. The moment lingers, tender and expectant, while his thumb moves in gentle strokes over the back of your hand.

He breaks the spell, giving your hand a squeeze as he gets up from the table and draws you with him into the living room. You settle on the couch together, but before you can properly nestle into him he reaches for a small, wrapped package on the coffee table.

“I brought you something,” he says, sliding the parcel toward you with a grin. 

You don’t even try to hide your excitement. Marcus has impeccable taste, and he knows it. He looks even more pleased with himself when you kiss him once, twice, before turning your attention to the present in your hands.

The paper falls away to reveal a flat jewelry box, and inside, on a bed of black satin, is a dream of a necklace: a small, delicate gold disk pendant, set with a halo of tiny emeralds that sparkle in the light. It’s elegant and understated and it couldn’t be more perfect if you’d chosen it yourself, and you tell Marcus so amid more grateful kisses.

“Help me put it on?” you ask at last, turning to sit facing away from him.

Carefully, he takes the necklace from its box and clasps it at the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine by trailing his lips in the golden chain’s wake. “It looks even prettier on you,” he murmurs into your skin.

“I’m going to wear it every day,” you promise, leaning into him as he kisses his way to the sensitive spot just under your ear. “Marcus, it means the world to me that you were thinking of me while you were there.”

He laughs a little against your neck, the puff of breath raising goosebumps. “Of course I was. I’m never not thinking about the woman I love.”

For a moment, the world stops spinning. The tightening of his hands on your waist tells you the words have slipped out of their own accord, the kind of rogue emotional impulse he works so hard to keep locked down.

He loves you. _Marcus loves you._

When you turn around to face him, he looks rueful, almost apologetic. “I hope it’s not too soon. I don’t want to come on too strong, but I know what I feel--”

You cut him off with a kiss. 

It takes him a second to catch up, but when he does, he goes all in. Strong arms pull you into his lap, his fingers tangle in your hair, and he just melts into you, kissing you like his life depends on it. Maybe it does.

“Marcus,” you breathe against his lips. 

He pulls away, just enough to look at you. You feel as much as hear his questioning hum.

You stroke his cheek, trace your thumb over the place where his dimple hides. “I love you, too.”

You’d swear the brilliance of his smile could power a small town.

“You think so?”

“I know so.” You laugh a little. “If I’m being honest, I started falling for you at Melissa’s party.”

Marcus quirks an eyebrow in surprise.

You shrug. “Can you blame me? You were handsome, smart, funny. Dead sexy in your leather jacket.”

He looks away, smiling sheepishly, but your finger on his chin brings his gaze back to yours.

“But I also noticed you had kind eyes,” you go on. “You asked me questions and really listened to the answers, you walked me to my car when I left...you fed Melissa’s dog a piece of cheese from the charcuterie board when you thought no one was looking.”

He winces. “He was making sad eyes at me.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his nose. “Marcus, you were a gentleman. Not because it was going to impress anybody, but because it’s just who you are. So, yeah, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world when you asked for my number. And I promise you’re not going to scare me off, because when I dream about the future, you’re in it.”

For a long moment he just looks at you, emotion swimming in the dark depths of his eyes. “How did I get so lucky?” he finally asks. He pulls you closer against him. “I love you. I really do.”

You all but whimper his name as he sweeps you into another kiss, a hot, hungry press of lips and tongues and murmured praise that feels like the love child of a caress and a thunderstorm. When his hands trail lightning over your skin and you manage to babble something that sounds like “please,” Marcus breaks from you just long enough to get to his feet, helping you up before he’s kissing you again, gently guiding you toward the hallway.

Your blood is singing in your veins, and if someone offered you a winning lottery ticket it would be ashes compared to what you’re holding in your hands right now. 

Marcus’s sigh is the sound of perfect happiness as he tears his lips from you and presses his forehead to yours at the threshold of his bedroom. 

“Sweetheart, I told you I love you.” His voice is smoke and honey. “Now I want to show you.”


End file.
